


My Time

by vero__wright



Category: Dunvern 31
Genre: 45 is Donald Trump you’re right but we don’t speak of it outside of the tags, Captured, Gen, Original Characters - Freeform, government rebel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27833092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vero__wright/pseuds/vero__wright
Summary: Vero Pechman’s finale.Song: My Time by Bo En





	My Time

**Author's Note:**

> CW/TW:  
> \- Character death  
> \- Descriptive degradation  
> \- Descriptive malnourishment

_“Close. Your eyes, you’ll be here soon”_

Vero had been running for what felt like hours, and by that point probably had been hours seeing as it was now dark and raining, as opposed to the cloudy bright when he had started.

He’d finally been found out, the government had tracked him down and he had to abandon everything: his home, his years of working to assassinate the dictator, his computer with his entire _life_ stored on it. It didn’t matter now, none of it did, he was being chased by everyone and anyone who worked for the government.

_“Ichi, ni, san, shi, go fun”_

He was exhausted, he had to stop to take a breath. Taking a turn into an alleyway and trying to weave his way through different exits to find a second to breathe, he finally lost those chasing him for a moment.

Leaning against the wall, hand on his chest, he tried as hard as he could to not breathe too heavily, though extremely difficult. His heart was racing so fast, the beats were so loud.

He was a sweaty, tired, on-edge mess, still dressed in his usual suit. He wasn’t ditching a single part of his outfit unless he _really_ had to, it’d only make him easier to track. The one item of clothing he’d never give up? His gloves, they were the only thing keeping him from giving up.

_“Tokidoki hontōni netai”_

He slid down the wall, sitting on the wet concrete, taking a moment to think. He had to keep going, he couldn’t sit there forever. No matter whether he ran or sat, there was a chance of him getting caught, sitting was just that bit more risky.

Standing right back up, he took a few deep breaths, checking back the way he came before turning to run in the other direction.

They’d caught him, many guns were pointed in his direction. He heard incoherent shouting, he knew the drill. One hand in the air, he slowly reached down into his pocket, pulling his gun out. He quickly disarmed himself, leaning down and sliding the empty gun in their direction before standing back up and pressing himself front-first against the wall.

_“Demo kono wādo dekinai”_

Everything happened pretty quickly. He was arrested, told he had no rights, that the country would be glad he was finally captured, then shoved into an unmarked car and driven off to a government facility where, no doubt, he’d be interrogated at.

The drive felt long, and the fact he had two people sitting at his sides, poking, prodding and mocking him, didn’t help. He tried to ignore all the noise as best as he could, he tried not to react to being touched by those scoundrels. It was very stressful, but not long after zoning out, it was over.

_“O-ya-su-mi”_

As he predicted, he was immediately taken to an interrogation room after getting a bit slapped up. He stared blankly at his interrogator, wrists cuffed to the table.

He wasn’t questioned too much, more or less degraded and threatened. Their face was familiar, they’d certainly met before in a similar situation, though he couldn’t think of where he remembered them from.

After maybe half an hour of being demeaned, the interrogation started to go downhill. He was touched vigorously as he had been in the car ride, jumping at each touch.

Then the moment that would test his will to live happened: his gloves began to be removed. He jerked his hands away as much as possible, clenching his hands into fists.

All the other did was smirk and tug at the cuffs of his gloves, managing to pull them off halfway. Vero became extremely anxious, starting to shake, glaring.

The interrogator swiftly pulled the gloves off his hands, leaving little time for Vero to react. He tried to reach out and grab them back, but failed miserably. He stared at his hands, starting to feel sick from just the feeling of air hitting them.

He had a breakdown, as much as he tried to fight it off, it still hit him. He felt embarrassed and even more degraded than he ever had been.

As he had his breakdown, he felt something touch his hands. He looked up, teary-eyed, to see his interrogator’s hands on his. They were smirking, clearly enjoying the mental torture.

He so desperately wanted a gun. He do desperately wanted it to end right then and there.

_“Oyasumi, oyasumi, close your eyes and you’ll leave this dream.”_

Vero was swiftly removed from the interrogation room moments after making moves, attempting to attack the interrogator, despite the fact he could barely move his hands.

Their name was on the tip of his tongue, perhaps if he’d thought a bit harder while with them, he’d have remembered.

His hands were still bare, and that bastard must have told those dragging him away that his hands were his weakness as every few seconds he felt their skin on his.

He didn’t know where he was being taken, he was hurried down countless corridors, then he finally saw where he was being taken, somewhere he’d be left to rot.

_“Oyasumi, oyasumi, I know that it’s hard to do.”_

The days passed slowly, and he was checked on every single hour of the day for weeks until everyone got bored of him.

Day in, day out, the ruffians came in and beat him verbally and physically, over time he began to waste away. He ended up being unable to move, whether it be due to hunger, thirst or lack of exercise.

The fateful day had arrived, he was hauled up from the spot he claimed to be his bed. Skin and bones, he rattled in the hands of his captors, trying to avoid anymore pain by trying to walk alongside them, he resorted to being dragged along the floor like a dead animal.

He was thrown into a van, clearly he was being taken somewhere outside of the facility. He felt that it was a quick journey, though his perception of time was muddled.

After being dragged out of the van, he was thrown onto a podium in front of a crowd. There were bright flashes of light every time he tried to open his eyes to see what was going on.

He was positioned to sit up on his knees, being able to scan the crowd for only a moment.

There were familiar faces, specifically three; his old roommate, the man he used to abuse, and the old man who made his mental health deteriorate.

The roommate was the only one who looked sorrowful, the other two looked on as though they were glad, like the rest of the damned country.

He was given ten seconds to think of a final sentence and say it.

“Fuck number forty-five.”

 **BANG**.


End file.
